"You are dear to me. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"I wouldn't allow you here, if you weren't."
"I know."
"Do you speak anything else, boy?"
"I don't know."
"Are you mocking me?"
"Maybe."
"You're a Dragon. Son of the Dragon. No matter what I said."
"You said i'm a worm."
"Wyrm. You're not. You're my son."
282 AC, The Red Keep.
"My King." The Wyrm spoke, slithering closer like the earth-worm he was. "Might I speak on recent events?"
The Dragon's maw worked, snapped, but he uttered not a word, his royal purples taking in the lesser sight.
It made a sorry picture, this faulty product of his loins, pale and bloody, red and white, even cloaked in darkness as it was.
He shouldn't have allowed him in his den, he knew, for he was treacherous, just like the rest. He should have smothered him in the craddle, lauched him from his walls, and it would have even been a mercy.
But how was it, then, that he was glad he hadn't.
What manner of fortune was it, that amidst the perfidous, and the faithless, it was this half-being, that was the least of them. Not his Consort, not his Trueborn, but this wingless abomination, this drake trashing in the muck.
Misfortune, that's what it was, and it filled his veins with those same flames dancing and burning the chimney.
The Dragon stirred on his seat, not cutting iron, and his head gave a minute twitch, a nod.
"The Wolves," the Wyrm went on, reclining on his own silky seat. "The one who would raise his paw against the Dragon, and the one who would challenge him, what shall be of them?"
"Punishment." The Dragon spoke, a chilling hiss. Like the rest of their ilk, he'd punish them. "Traitors. Turncoats."
"Punishment." The worm mused, like it was his place to muse. Disloyal bastard. He reached for a cup, and lounged back once he'd snatched it. "They would raise their paws against the Dragon, wouldn't they. What would be a fitting punishment." One knew, and the other drank a sip. "Cut them off, I say. One for each, or a couple each. Send them scurrying back to their frozen wasteland, maimed forevermore by your might."
Paws, the Dragon squinted, smoothed his awesome mane, his great beard. "Paws?"
"Paws, my King." The Wyrm agreed, shades playing at his lips. "Let them remember. Let them look at it, and remember. Let them tell the tales of you, and of Targaryen, and of your mercy."
"Mercy."
"Like the Conqueror, Father, and the King Who Knelt."
"Torrhen Stark." The Dragon supplied, licking at his chops. He'd overlook, this time, the familiar way he had dared call him. He should have treated him fairer, beaten him harsher, or launched him from the walls. It was his own fault, in a way.
"Torrhen Stark." The Wyrm nodded, his red eyes unblinking. "Make an example of them, like the Conqueror made an example of him. Take their claws and take their fangs. Grant them the secret cruelty of living half-lives in the Dragon's shadow." He chuckled, smooth and mirthful. "Laugh, while the weak praise you, and your mercy."
Praise. He liked praise, he had to admit. Dragons were meant to be praised, and worshipped. Yet.
"The King Who Knelt," his tongue snapped. "Knelt."
The Wyrm clicked his. "They will. Kneel. How could they not, infront of you, measly creatures that they are."
How could they not, thought the Dragon, they were measly indeed. "How could they not." He repeated aloud.
"They could not." He was answered.
Paws, he thought again, looking into the flames. They whispered to him. "They are traitors."
"The son is a traitor." He was swifly answered, once more. It made his claws dig into his scales, this one's presumption. "But he wanted Rhaegar, and Rhaegar is a traitor, too."
And then his claws were digging into something else, into the soft flesh of a measly creature, and the Dragon was roaring, like the terrible wonder it was.
"Rhaegar is mine!" He growled, digging deeper, until droplets of wine and droplets of blood marred the Wyrm's bleak arm, until he could feel his pulse beneath his talons. "The son of the Dragon! A Dragon! Not like you, you wingless bastard!"
The worm didn't flinch, nor trash, but went limp. "Not like me."
It calmed him, somehow, this show of meakness, but troubled him, too. Prey trashed, and flinched, once they found themselves in the Dragon's glower. Just like that dastardly fake did, that poisonous bitch poisoning his seed. But this one never did.
It amused him, for maybe he believed himself his equal. It angered him, for maybe he truly did. It troubled him, for he knew he wasn't, and yet he didn't trash. He didn't understand it.
"But he does want your crown, doesn't he?" The Wyrm went on, red into purple, as if a Dragon's breath wasn't blowing his mane. "And your Throne, he wants that too."
He didn't reply, not immediately, only glared, for a time, searching for treachery, and then he leant back, and called back his claws.
"He does want them." The Dragon inhaled, shaking red from his yellow hooks. "So what."
"So," the Wyrm put aside his cup, laid his bloody limb on the golden armrest. "However much misguided, and foolish, and wicked, the Wolf's actions might have been, should we not consider– "
"I!" The Dragon trashed, eyes wide. "Not we!"
The Wyrm didn't flinch. Why didn't it flinch. "Should you not consider that, in the end, they were just part of a squabble between traitors? That, in the end, they only served to uncover hidden aspects of Rhaegar's treachery?"
"Rhaegar took." He breathed a deep breath. "Like a Dragon should."
But what did this one know, of being a Dragon. Nothing. He knew nothing. That is why he could trust him. He was lesser. Nothing. He was nothing.
"He did. But he didn't tell you he'd be taking, did he. Shouldn't he have told you? Aren't you his King?"
"I am!" He trashed again. "I am the King! I am the Crown! The Throne!"
"Why should you, then, have to deal with his troubles?"
"They must be punished."
"Of course." The Wyrm spoke, dancing shadows covering him whole. He raised his mauled arm. "Paws."
"Paws." The Dragon considered, staring into the twisting fire. It spoke to him, that ancient power, the Champion of his House. Why should it burn so little, when it could burn everything. Why shouldn't he. The King. The Dragon. "Paws. "
"Yes." The Wyrm breathed. It made something pull at his lip. He didn't flinch, nor trash, but he did that. And however much a wingless abomination, a drake in the muck, he could still command flames, couldn't it. "It'd be a just ruling, as just as they deserve."
Yes, thought the Dragon. Yes.
Aerys smiled.
"He did this to you?"
"You shouldn't be here."
"Sweetling– Please."
"Don't cry. Just leave."
"Don't push me away– I beg you– I don't care if he– I just want to be with you, my li–"
"Rhaella. Leave."
.
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So, how's my Mad King?
Short and (hopefully) sweet, and a bit of a timeskip, but I kinda like this. Allows me to pump out stuff quite fast, compared to my other works. I do believe, though, that once we leave canon, chapters will get a bit longer.
As for the reviews:
Maelor Vhagon, oneironaught101 –glad you were looking forward to more, hopefully you still are .)
Mx. Caraxes – Happy you liked my portrayal of Lyanna, tried to go heavy on the wolfblood, and yeah, I definetely need to work on the scenery. As for Aeryn, well, he's complicated. And Aerys' favorite kid, for good but mostly ill.
Kirito emiya – Nope.